Scars and Calluses
by USxArthurxKirklandxUK
Summary: Shameless USUK fluff. They say that hands can say a lot about a person. America hadn't really thought about that before he really looked at England's.


Scars and Calluses

**Summary: Shameless USUK fluff. They say that hands can say a lot about a person. America hadn't really thought about that before he really looked at England's.**

**A/N: Just a short one-shot to get me into my writing rut. I may or may not follow this up with a second one from Arthur's perspective.**

**Check out my friend 21xJoKeRx13's fanfics! She writes mostly Bleach and Pokemon, and has a lovely Pokemon series going at the moment. **

**Please enjoy the random one shot.**

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

America yawned softly, curling closer to his lover in a sleepy embrace. It was early—to early, in the American's opinion, to be awake. He preferred his Saturday mornings to be lazy, and had no qualms about sleeping the day away until noon—sometimes as late as 2, depending on how late he had stayed up playing X-Box Live with Japan and Prussia the night before.

England, however, was different. He liked to be awake and bustling about by eight, at the absolute latest, and was often awake even before that. It didn't matter how late he had been up the night before. Arthur said that his internal clock (whatever that was) wouldn't let him sleep past eight. On the rare instances where it happened, he usually acted as if the extra two hours of sleep were half a day wasted, and would gripe about it for a few hours.

England groaned a little in his sleep and curled up. His knees and elbows tucked themselves into his chest, and his hands rose to lie next to his head on the pillow. America had to hold back a laugh. England always looked so adorable when he was sleeping. Any visages of being an "old man" were removed. The lines of his face relaxed, revealing a younger, far more adorable man—America's "Iggy", "Artie", "Honey", "Sweetheart", or, just to annoy England, "Babycakes". England only approved of two of those nicknames, and even then, it was grudgingly.

It odd to see the man who had raised him still looking so young, so unaffected as the humans around them grew older and older with each passing day. Arthur, he would be willing to bet, looked the same as he had when he had taken Alfred's hand in that field that fateful day. He had never seen England any other way, though he had heard that he was supposedly "adorable", according to France (which was a tad creepy, admittedly).

Alfred remembered that, as a child, he had never really seen a whole lot of England—at least, bodily way. Even by England's standards, he had taken modesty to extremes back then. The only thing that remained uncovered had been his face. His collars were always high, covering every square inch of pale skin they possibly could; his pants were always long—and when they weren't, he always wore high stockings or tall boots to make up for the difference. Even his hands were covered, if he wasn't working the earth, with forever-pristine white gloves.

America looked at those hands now. The gloves had always been bulky, distorting their true shape. They were knobby, thin, and surprisingly small for a man. Alfred remembered when his own hand had barely filled England's palm, and realized just small he had really been. Now, he was sure his own hands enveloped England's. He tested this theory, one arm circling its way around England's waist to pull him closer, the other gently falling over his hand. America's hand easily covered England's, and then some. England's hands were surprisingly soft, as well; probably a product of that lotion he was always rubbing into his skin. England said that the papers he handled on a daily basis, both from work and the thick volumes of books he somehow worked his way through, dried them out if he wasn't careful. Was that why he had worn gloves those years ago, then? Was it because he didn't have the modern convenience of lotion?

America's fingers gently stroked the shape of England's thumb; the rise and fall of its curve, where it joined his palm, just to enjoy the texture of his lover's skin. England didn't seem to notice, though America could have sworn he twitched a bit.

He turned his attention to his lover's fingers from his thumb. The middle finger of his right hand had odd little scars circling them, just above where they joined with his palm. They were jagged, rough, and the first time Alfred had noticed them, he had been insatiably curious as to how they had come about. He had pestered the poor nation until England had finally relented, just wanting the incessant jabs and pouting and pleading to stop.

"I was working in the archer regiment in the Battle of Agincourt—" thinking back, America wondered where that was—"and the French would take any captured English archers and cut their middle finger…"

"That's freaking sick!" America had cried, pulling a face. He couldn't imagine doing such a thing. A soldier had to suffer through bodily mutilation just because he were a prisoner of war? That was crazy! He knew that the Europeans were nuts, but that was taking it to a new level.

England, however, had laughed. "Yes, well. When it came down to it, I didn't lose them. I managed to give Francis the slip before he'd finished."

"France himself did that to you?" America was feeling sick to his stomach by that point.

"It's rather hard for a mortal to cause harm to a nation," England had retorted. "So of course they would have France do it. It would have hurt my country, as well… It would have affected more than just one little archer." He shrugged. "But, as I said…."

America wondered what England would have looked like if Francis had succeeded in cutting off those fingers. He supposed he would have been the same, just… missing part of his hand. Even though America didn't want to admit it—as much as he wanted to say he would love England anyways—he knew it would have bothered him. And anyhow, just how would England have done his embroidery while missing a finger? He guessed that he would have missed that more than being able to draw a bow (though America had chanced upon something in England's storeroom that the older nation had waved off as an unstrung bow. Perhaps he still did shoot it, sometimes?).

His fingers gently caressed the ragged marks, and moved up, over those adorably knobby joints. Every part of England was like that, and England hated it. America thought it was cute. He loved how thin England was, how light—and he loved how he would blush, smack him, and yell at him not to stare. But somehow, knobby knees weren't as adorable as those finger joints.

Those fingers could do so much. They could darn a sock (whatever darning was, all America knew was that England could fix holes in stuff) in seconds, embroider a rose in a matter of minutes, and they had made more shorts, pants, and shifts for a rambunctious child America than the now-grown man cared to admit. In fact, America could still see little pinpricks on England's palms and fingertips from helping the students at the Royal School of Needlework (it existed and America could hardly believe it) to make the lace for his beloved Kate's wedding dress. Or was it veil? Either way, England had been up in that room, helping the lace workers, for far too long, and had refused any of America's pleas for a date for nearly four weeks.

Those same fingers had held a magnum during the World Wars, a musket during the Revolution (and thrown that same musket to the ground, instead of pulling the trigger), a yew bow during some war before America was even around. Like all nations, England was capable of creating—but also of destroying. Food was one such thing that England attempted to create, but ended up destroying more often than not.

They also gently scratched America's scalp just the way he liked it while he lay with his head in England's lap during the evening news; they had soothed a number of wounds—both serious and otherwise—that the American had sustained. They had clung to him in times of passion when England was—

And now his mind was getting off track. There had to be something else to think about. He glanced at the tips of England's fingers, to those ever-so-neat nails. England always kept them short and tidy—it was rare that they were ever long, and even then, it bothered the Englishman. He kept his nails—and hands in general—in the same order he kept everything else. England was a neat freak. There was no getting around that. Even after a rough bout of sex, the man would take the time to smooth out the sheets and covers over the two of them, no matter how exhausted he was after America had—

And he was back at square one. God, could his mind stay out of the gutter for more than two minutes? Sure, he was still technically a teenager in physical terms, but—

England stirred as America's grip on his hand tightened reflexively, and sleepy emerald eyes opened. "Alfred?" he asked tiredly, fighting back a yawn and losing, turning his head so that he could help America avoid any morning breath. "What is it?"

"Nothing, babe," America replied, kissing the other's forehead. "Come on…. I'm starved. Make me breakfast? I'm suddenly in the mood for some of that awful cheese and toast thing you make…"

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

**Notes:**

**[1] England's fingers – This is a popular myth about how the "middle finger" sign came into being. This is why the British version of "flipping the bird" presents both the middle and index finger, rather than the American version, which only shows the middle. It's debatable whether or not it actually happened, but for the purposes of this fic, it happened, to an extent; at least to Arthur.**


End file.
